


Monday, Monday

by ChloShow



Category: Original Work
Genre: Crimes & Criminals, Gay Male Character, M/M, Organized Crime
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-22
Updated: 2017-02-22
Packaged: 2018-09-26 05:09:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 6,030
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9864260
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ChloShow/pseuds/ChloShow
Summary: Two criminals get mixed up in each others' lives.





	1. Chapter 1

I.

Everything they did had a fucking point to it. You didn’t have a name. You had a codename but not just _any_ codename. No. Your name was the day of the week you picked up your package, so he was Monday.

Each branch had a Monday, had its own week full of schlubs for that matter. The schedule wasn’t for kicks either. Each partner in the business picked up or dropped off a package at their office for a middleman to document and sort. This middleman was the only person he had regular contact with, and that contact consisted of a quick glance through small, plexiglass windows in the slots of post office boxes that formed the façade of an unremarkable troll-man’s abode. What type of guy would agree to a job like that he didn’t know, but he was sure there wasn’t anything of consequence he could extract from the fellow.

The lack of contact added to the mysterious bureaucratic process. No one knew nobody, and that’s the way the Boss liked it.

Except Monday didn’t like it.

He _knew_ his packages sat in the troll’s tray well before time came for him to check his box for a new assignment. He knew it not because of any hard facts but because bureaucracy tended to work that way. Okay, he lied. His job required hard facts. Sure he had a gut feeling something was up with the system, but when the contents of one of his dossiers had water damage from a storm that happened _Thursday_ , reality reinforced his intuition.

No business was perfect, especially not _this_ business. Perhaps its imperfection was believing in its own infallibility. The codenames, the routine, the secrecy. After removing the smoke and mirrors, one predictable element remained: Consistency.

***

Sunday tucked the manila envelope into his leather briefcase. As he strolled from car to corner, a picture of the envelope formed in his mind, envisioning the peculiarly irritating indentations the metal prongs made across the pads of his fingers.

The assignment had lasted longer that he would’ve liked, and the work he carried underneath his arm certainly left a lot to be desired. However, the musclehead whose job it was to round up the schmo in his photos couldn’t differentiate between good and bad intel work. As long as the musclehead could find the schmo/rough him up/ransack his place/kill him/fill in the blank, the intel quality for the most part didn’t matter. The only barrier preventing Sunday from turning in truly shoddy work was his personal standard of excellence.

Tap.

Tap.

Tap.

Measured footsteps clicked across the parking lot behind him, preceding the call of a man with poorly kept facial hair.

“Hey, may I see that envelope?”

He’d tuned out during the Organization’s perfunctory training sessions except for the protocol that specified what not to do when coerced by gun-toting interrogators into revealing your intel. However, nothing had prepared him for the more nuanced “stranger asks politely for your dossier” scenario. In his confusion, he nearly obliged the stranger’s request, but his wits got the better of him, “No, you may not.”

“If I’m assuming correctly, we work for the same people. You must be Sunday. I’m Monday.” The man who called himself Monday extended his hand in greeting. Again, the trainings flashed through his mind: _‘No fraternization with other employees.’_

He coughed a fairy-sweet laugh, “Whatever you’re selling, I’m not buying, Hotstuff.”

As he turned to blow off Monday, an invisible force plucked the goldenrod package from its home in the folds of his leather accordion bag. A fleeting regret mumbled that he should’ve purchased the Nordstrum buckle bag (which lacked the sophistication of the accordion bag). Curse him for his superior sense of style.

Paper as crisp as fresh dollar bills slid out of the confines of its vessel in a way that made him grind his teeth. “HEY!”

He launched himself at the man who carried nearly double his weight in muscle, fingers clawing at Monday’s nautical pea coat. After tearing a few fistfuls of lint from his opponent as if back on the grade school courtyard, Sunday caught the reverberations of a profound sigh heave from Monday’s back.

“Sorry. Wasn’t for me.” Monday extended the mangled papers unceremoniously, leaving without so much as a glance.

His work—pictures, files, receipts—fell back into his hands, and he scrambled to shove the vital organs back into the creature’s pitiful corpse.


	2. Chapter 2

II.

Sunday again. His car engine hummed in tune with the hot air spewing from the vents on the dashboard. Painfully embarrassing images flashed with headache intensity, projecting onto the parking lot before him. Sunday’s file had housed a child kidnapping assignment. During the hiring process, the Organization asked him what his limitations were. How far was he willing to go on the scale from “pussy” to “selling his soul?” His specifications: No innocent spouses, no children. The reminder that the Organization specialized in areas well outside his comfort zone pierced his resolve and more importantly, really fucking ruined his week.

A deep vibrato alerted him to his car’s temperature gauge, which indicated he was dangerously close to overheating. He clicked his keys three notches and pulled them out in the same motion, waiting for Sunday to stroll across his view and into his crosshairs. No more willy nilly paper-snatching for him. This new mission’s objective lacked that simplicity.

A man entered into view, and fuck would he recognize that sour face and prissy designer shoes anywhere.

“Hey, man.”

“Get the fuck away from me,” Sunday twitched, picking up his pace toward the post office building.

“No, I’m not—let me buy you a drink,” he managed to spill the words quickly enough to slow Sunday’s gait. Cutting wind chipped against Sunday’s close-cropped hair around his temples. Fucking prick with his World War II haircut refused to wear a beanie.

“Why the fuck are you following me?” Sunday shivered, scowled, and willed himself to believe the cold didn’t bother him.

“I’m apologizing. For last week,” he extended his bare hand against the biting cold, “How ‘bout it? Drinks on me--or at least the first couple rounds.”

Sunday kept his leather gloves on for the handshake. “Ah, I specify the rules of the apology, and as it stands, you’re buying me the whole goddamn bar.”

***

In the dim red neon of the bar’s electric sign, personalized mugs and authentic steins hung on racks behind the counter. Watching over the scene in judgment lay a canvas-nude woman draped over furs and other fine accouterments. Monday looked this saint straight in her sultry chest. Sunday scanned the framed postcards and ink drawings of German villages as he always did.

Winding through the small artery blockages of people, Monday found a table in the corner with a view of the pool table and rotund bartender. They peeled back their outer layers to accommodate the thick-as-mulled-wine air, scented with sweat and citrus. Before Sunday could unravel his black cashmere scarf, a jolly hand clapped onto his shoulder with all the warmth of a grandfather at Christmas.

“ _Mein Sohn_! It is a pleasure to see you on this _Martinstag_. Who is this friend you bring me?” The man grabbed Monday’s hand in greeting before he had the chance to offer.

“ _Herr_ Koenig!” Although Mr. Koenig’s approach was by no means surreptitious, Sunday still recoiled in alarm, “Oh, he is no friend. Just a man who owes me a drink.”

“Ah, I know the kind,” Mr. Koenig’s receding gums flashed as he recalled some oft-recounted memory, “I will be back with your _stein_ filled to the brim, eh, Sas--”

“Ahhhhh! Sunday. For business reasons, today my name is Sunday.”

Monday sat, amused at the bustling scene unfolding before him, “What am I buying you, Sunday?”

“Rye whiskey.”

“Make that two,” Monday’s mustache crinkled over his lips as he watched Sunday regain his composure once Mr. Koenig plowed back through the crowd toward the bar. Before either day of the week could squeeze in another word, Mr. Koenig returned, careful not to slosh any sacred liquor down his apron or onto the tray carrying three shots.

“ _Prost_!” Mr. Koenig indicated the toast with a shot glass, pressuring Sunday and Monday to keep up with his impossible, German momentum.

“ _Prost!_ ” Sunday echoed with a wry smile, cajoling Monday to do the same.

“ _Prost!_ ” Monday mimicked, and all three men brought the liquid to their lips in communion.

4 glasses later, Sunday regaled Monday with a more-than animated tale about a divorce celebration trip to Austria.

“See, the _polizei_ tried to pry David’s big ass head out. Fucking idiot had to pay €200 to replace the museum’s medieval stocks set-up.”

The story had built for a while, each sip from his _stein_ adding another tangent, another emphatic arm movement. Monday played his drinks safe, draining 3 beers steadily throughout the evening. He’d paid for 6 whiskey shots, but for Sunday the beer flowed freely from Mr. Koenig’s tap, some sort of arrangement for discounted dental work, he said.

“I don’t want to ruin your mood, but I need to ask you something.”

“You never let me have any fun!” Sunday pouted, eventually breaking into hysterics, careening backwards in his wooden chair against the wall, “No, no, just get it over with, Mood Killer.”

“Are you really so against me seeing assignments early?”

Sunday groaned gutturally, “So that’s what you do, you get men drunk and make them talk about work. How sexy of you.”

“I figured the system out, so there won’t be anymore incidents like last time. I promise,” Monday assured him, “The pink sticker on the right means it’s for me.”

Against the tides of liquor, Sunday had trouble keeping his emotions secret, contorting his face in thought, “That means _I’m_ the red sticker on the left, and holy shit, you’re gonna do this shit whether or not I say yes aren’t you?”

Monday didn’t have to answer.

“Oh, it’s your goddamn funeral; let me tell you that. I won’t attend, but I’ll send a tasteful card.”

Smirking at the sentiment, Monday tapped on his coaster to reclaim Sunday’s attention, “If you help me out, I’ll ride backup for your recon jobs.”

He took the time to consider the offer, catching the self-satisfied glint in the corner of Monday’s eyes, “Fuck no, you’re not getting me that easily.” Rising to show, yeah, he still had some sort of power over the situation, Sunday bumped the table with knees, which in turn spilled a few ounces of the beer Mr. Koenig had just topped off. He left for the restroom without another word.

As soon as he disappeared to the restroom, Monday lifted the _stein_ nonchalantly, curious as to whether this container was personalized like the rows of mugs hanging precariously on wooden pegs. Written on the domed ceramic bottom with black permanent marker, the name “SASHA” burned itself into his mind’s eye, tingling like cigarette tar in the back of his throat. The rush of power made his cheeks flush. On a whim, he chanced a glance at the sultry saint above the bar. She glowered back.


	3. Chapter 3

III. 

Their target lived in a place where no one called the cops on burglars because everyone had some illegal dealings in some form or fashion. They’d parked a little ways down the street, keeping the car idling for protection against the winter-worn air. Headlights off, of course.

“Ya know, I always like it when I have a red sticker on my package.”

“Now you’re just kissing my ass.”

“No, I’m serious. Blue doesn’t always give me all the info I needed. Have to fill in some blanks by myself, but you— _you_ do a thorough job.”

Sasha grinned against his steel thermos of _gluhwein_ , “What does pink mean then? What are your rules?”

“No kids, no innocent spouses.”

“So you’re a pussy then,” he cherished Monday’s good-natured slap to his arm, “They must really like you. They don’t normally hire guys with those restrictions. Normally it’s ‘no pets’ or something.”

Monday straightened his shoulders, giving his announcement the necessary pomp and circumstance, “I think they would do anything for the guy who killed Disco Dave.”

“No-fucking-way,” he turned down the local NPR station to make sure he hadn’t misheard anything, “ _The_ Disco Dave? Where—how the fuck, man? Isn’t he a legend?”

“Not so much of a legend 2 decades after the death of disco, more of a walking epitaph,” he let Sasha stew, pulling out a cigarette from a near-empty pack, disengaging the car lighter, and touching the end to the metal coils with a crisp puff of smoke, “My old boss asked me if I wanted to move up. Like anyone, I said yes. He told me I’d really get some attention if I offed this guy who’d made out with 2 kilos of coke and his favorite pipe. Figured this has-been wouldn’t leave his old stomping grounds, so I asked around about any crusty guy with a gold-gripped gun. Caught a couple dead ends, but I found him eventually.”

The tips of Sasha’s lips curved in an irrepressible smile, “I thought you guys were all just certified heavys, but you’re a goddamn _superhero_.” He glowed religiously, in awe of the smoking prophet honoring him with his presence.

A screen door rebounding against its frame alerted them to their target jogging down the stairs of a roughed up duplex.

“Oh shit-oh shit-oh shit,” Sasha scrambled for his camera, snapping a few shots underneath the streetlamps before their target froze beside his mailbox. “Fuck, why isn’t he moving? Does he see us?”

“Kiss me.”

“Holy fuck, he’s looking right at us.”

“Fucking kiss me!” Monday pulled Sasha by the collar straight across the vehicle onto his lap. For a second, their grappling bodies looked less like an impassioned display of affection and more like a wrestling match, and perhaps they had actually been wrestling. Now, from an outsider’s perspective, the car housed a couple expressing their love for one another or a lonely man buying a few moments of pleasure. Either way, their target looked the other way as he unlocked his car and backed out of his short driveway.

“Is he gone?” Sasha muttered against Monday’s ear, finally easing into his grasp, enjoying the warm hands gripping his waist.

“In his car,” his voice tickled Sasha’s cheek, “Think he’s gone.”

They rested for a moment against each other, prolonging their little act for a few seconds too long.

“My camera,” Sasha shifted to pull his Minolta strap around his neck, turning off the ignition in the same motion.

Sasha made quick work jimmying the front door open, capturing the layout of the house as best he could with his camera, flipping on the light to combat the stifling darkness of the early AM. Monday twiddled his thumbs nonchalantly, distracting himself from the way Sasha’s mouth had closed around his by keeping a vigilant, blood pressure-raising lookout for passersby. Nothing.

In fact, for 7 minutes, everything went off without a hitch. 7 minutes and 45 seconds later, the target pulled into view once more, returning to retrieve his forgotten wallet.

***

In front of him, Sasha took the stairs two by two, eager to shed his blood-spattered coat. The target had nearly wasted him, but Monday had sprung from behind, grappling with the man until Sasha sunk a bullet deep into his chest.

“Keys, keys,” he hassled Monday.

The pair had driven to the nearest refuge after the shooting, which just so happened to be Monday’s apartment, snuggly nested above a butcher shop.

Flipping through the dense key ring, Monday finally ascended the stairway and unlocked his door. Sasha unzipped his winter shell, peeled off the black long sleeve shirt, and crossed the threshold to the bathroom. In record time, the shower curtain rings grated against the metal rod, solidifying Sunday’s spot under the cleansing showerhead.

Monday inspected his own clothing, removing the afflicted items until his chest met the chill-bit air. Unlike the superficiality of Sasha’s stain, the blood had soaked through his workman’s coat to his coarse sweater, past his thermal to the skin. Flashes of the target’s gritted teeth crowded his vision as he undressed robotically. Both their guns had been knocked out of reach, so they fought ugly, fingers pulling at hair and skin.

Wandering absently in front of the bathroom mirror, he found red flecks peppering his neck and beard.

“You know, I could’ve been killed?” Sasha’s voice echoed off the walls, “I always thought I had the easy side of things, but fuck that myth. If you weren’t there, I would’ve been dead. _This_ shit right here is why we should have partners, but company policy trumps common sense.”

Barely registering the comment, Monday squirted white shaving foam into his palm, lathering up both hands to rub across his mouth, cheeks, and chin. Dragging the razor over his beard, he watched the blood mingle with the foam before both disappeared down the drain. The word “bleach” rang clearly through his mind above the static.

“Do you have any pants that _aren’t_ twice my size?”

With a swivel of his head, he found Sunday rooting through his drawers. When had he exited the shower? Hm. Monday lowered his head to the faucet and splashed his newly-bare face. A different man looked back at him while he dabbed the moisture off with a dry towel, a man too close to his actual self. He scrubbed at a couple red dots before joining Sasha in the one-room apartment.

An overlarge, olive green shirt hung comically across Sasha’s frame, “I’m burning all my clothes. I’m not taking any chances.”

First drawer to the right. Monday pulled out a fresh, white undershirt, casually throwing the garment over his shoulder.

Second drawer to the right. Monday retrieved a pair of leisure sweatpants, threading his legs through to cover his exposed body.

Third drawer to the left. Monday dug through layers of jeans until he found them. Had it really almost been two years?

“Here,” he offered, “They should fit.”

The jeans slid over Sasha’s thoroughly dried thighs and buttoned loosely around his navel. Not perfect, but they’d do for now.

“These aren’t yours,” Sasha embedded a question in the statement.

“No,” he paused, weighing his potential responses and ultimately failing to decide on an answer.

“Then they’re…”

“An ex’s,” he replied simply.

Yellow glow from the street below filtered through the drawn blinds, illuminating both men dimly in segmented light.

“Recent?” Sasha prodded for details.

“Yeah.” 2 years. He’d had the chance to donate them in the move, but… “Keep ‘em. Lord knows I don’t need them anymore.”

Sasha returned the comment with a contemplative nod. His eyes roved over Monday’s naked chest, drinking in the sight he hadn’t been able to properly appreciate in their hurried hot-and-heavy diversion.

“We better clean this up,” Monday gravitated toward his linen closet, stretching their connection until only a wisp remained. He located a few raggedy pillowcases to stuff their now incriminating clothes into for disposal.

Down in the butcher shop where Monday picked up the occasional shift, the two men stood reverently in front of the furnace, watching the flames lick away fabric thread by thread. Side-by-side, their connection returned, pulsing in anticipation, and Monday longed to say the word that had secretly danced on his tongue in moments of solitude.

“Sasha.”

A heavy, almost defeated breath deflated his chest, “How did you—“

“The bar. Your _stein_. I couldn’t resist,” he played with a dangerous thought, “Do you want me to tell you mine, so we’re even?”

No reply, not even a disdainful glance. Perhaps his ego ached from such an easy loss; in the firelight, he couldn’t see the flush red creeping up Sasha’s neck, pinching his cheeks. The two stood in silence for a substantial amount of time, soaking up each other’s heat.


	4. Chapter 4

IV.

His freshest assignment instructed him to monitor a meeting at the local Brew Yew (barring the name, their Americano was actually acceptable). As had become the custom, when he flipped open the tab of a new manila envelope to find his next assignment, March sat next to him, reminding Sasha they watched out for each other regardless of the Organization’s corporate, micromanaging rules. The dead air in his car buzzed with the latest public radio synth beats: his first recon job alone since the Incident.

Every shower at March’s place awakened the memory of the first man he’d ever killed, but laying wrapped against March’s chest acted as the perfect salve for the sore on his memory. Today, March ducked out, claiming he had some other pressing appointment. Sasha technically didn’t need him for _this_ particular job seeing that the most nerve-wracking part involved choosing which lunchtime coffee to order. As he watched the shop from his car in anticipation for 11:30AM (the time listed on his dossier for the meeting), he reviewed the contents of the package once more. A date, time, and address printed on cheap paper.

Something about the simple package concerned him. Reexamining the envelope, he found a circular, red sticker affixed to the left side of the manila flap and…no, that couldn’t be right. Sasha searched every square inch for that second sticker. While his fingers trailed the envelope’s bottom seam, he caught something stiff. A rush of relief hit him. The middleman had made a mistake. That was all.

Pulling out the cardstock rectangle, his heart tripped when the glint of the silver lettering caught his eye.

THIS IS A COURTESY.

With 3 minutes until his target arrived, this message sent Sasha 10 feet under heaps of rotting garbage and seagull shit to the nearest landfill his employers could afford to send his corpse on vacation.

11:28AM, and Sasha couldn’t stomach the suspense. While half his mind pleaded with him to drive the fuck out of there, he squeezed the handle of his accordion bag in a blue-knuckle grip, willing his legs to bring him into Brew Yew and not act out of the ordinary lest his employers were watching him through a sniper scope from a nearby rooftop.

After ordering a banana muffin and a cup of peppermint tea to soothe his nerves, Sasha surveyed the tight room for his target until he recalled his dossier made no mention of a physical description.

“I have about 7 so far. I’ve managed to copy some that aren’t mine because he takes that goddamn bag with him everywhere.” A baritone voice caught Sasha’s attention immediately.

March pressed through the coffee shop crowd, keeping a line of conversation alive with the petite woman trailing behind him. Sasha tore the newspaper from his bag and shoved his face into the first section available, which just so happened to be the obits. To the best of his knowledge, March hadn’t noticed him, so if he backed out of the shop quietly, he could still salvage…

“Sasha!” The barista called, tapping his hand on a small bell meant to alert customers to the most recently filled order.

Accepting the full futility of the situation, Sasha dragged himself to the counter, picking up the plate holding his tea and pastry as well as connecting sightlines for a sharp moment with the one man he most wished to avoid. Funny how fear slowed everything down, let Sasha detail the smallest muscles in March’s eyes signaling the suspicion this wasn’t a chance encounter.

Sasha’s table flanked the only free booth in the house, ensuring that if March and his acquaintance were dining in, they would spill their secrets next to him. His wine-stained copy of _Dirk Gently’s Holistic Detective Agency_ rested next to the Sunday paper; he tapped his pen on today’s crossword and kept his thumb steady on the tape recorder’s plastic RECORD button.

As predicted, March and his acquaintance took their spots, and a nearly inaudible _click_ signaled the official start of Sasha’s surveillance into his partner’s conservation—no, conversation.

“Do you have anything more on this Sunday fellow?” the woman commented, tearing small pieces off her scone and dipping the pastry into her tea. If the word “Sunday” hadn’t’ve tipped him off, the woman’s tight bun, no-nonsense blazer, and razor-thin creases on her trousers warned Sasha that this surely wasn’t a casual chat with an intimidating friend.

***

At the top of the stairs, Sasha crossed his arms against March’s arrival.

“What the fuck was that?” Sasha tore in first.

The single light illuminating the hall draped his 5 o’clock shadow in further shadow, “Let me explain.”

“Hold on,” he stopped March on his way up the stairway, and for once he towered over him, “if this explanation involves anything other than why you were ratting us out to that Foxy Brown wannabe, then I’m out.”

“You heard everything. I didn’t mention you once.” The woman, whose name was either Iris or Isis, drilled March with questions about the Organization and case specifics, and the one topic he refused to deliver on centered around Sasha. “You’re safe. There’s nothing more I could do.” March attempted to scale the stairway once more, but Sasha stopped him with the slight pressure of fingertips to his shoulder.

Slight concern tinged his voice as he considered March’s predicament, “How did they catch you?” In his personal criminal code, talking to the police in any capacity stood at the Top of the Pops, but seeing a man as strong as March take the dive, he wondered if that code could ever translate to reality. Just as quickly, the concern drifted back to self-preservation, remembering the ease with which March and his inquiring companion had bantered, “How long have you been fucking us over?”

Dodging the questions, March addressed the hideous, crumbling pig mural on the wall, anything but Sasha, “If you want to get out of here, you need to pack your bags and meet me at the old auto factory. I know a guy. He can get us IDs, passports.”

“The O’s got us, March. We’ll be dead before we leave the country,” he lifted the small business card with the menacing silver typeface. THIS IS A COURTESY.

“Sash,” he captured Sasha’s attention with one syllable, “I’m going to say something, and I need you to withhold judgment until I’m finished. Do you understand?” March stared at him as if he ached for his embrace yet denied himself the pleasure. A curt nod on Sasha’s end, and March started with those three little words: “I’m a cop.”


	5. Chapter 5

V.

A suitcase and two duffel bags contained all that March cared to take with him to start his new life. 20 minutes to pack. 5-minute petrol stop. 30 minutes travel time. Now, he waited for a sign of Sasha’s black Volvo.

When he first took the case, he thought, ‘ _Alright, this is the case you’ll be known for, so don’t fuck it up_.’ Oh, he’d be remembered. More like hunted for the rest of his goddamn life.

The dashboard clock blinked out 1:57PM, which contrasted to the leather-wristed watch resting in his passenger seat. Before leaving his apartment for the last time, March took a hard look around to find Sasha had left his watch on the nightstand. The timepiece’s hands had frozen in place, so he wound the dial a few times, reset the hour, and reflected on just how fucking stupid he had to be to execute this plan.

Protocol told him to contact his supervisor to report his cover had been blown. Iris would scowl, rub her forehead with moisturized fingers, and mourn the unsalvageable case. They’d make all the possible arrests, but the major players would slip from their grasp. That meant sacrificing Sasha, the first person he’d made a connection with in the two years since his partner from another unit died in a drug raid.

Turning his engine off in anticipation of Sasha’s arrival, he heard a sound reminiscent of a construction site. Retrieving his pistol from the glovebox and opening the driver’s side door, careful to check all obvious spots for gunmen, March audibly identified a generator grumbling around the corner of what used to be a factory floor. In an effort to describe the scene, a single word materialized: unbalanced. Exactly the type of gut feeling that struck when you walked into a seemingly joyous holiday dinner only to discover during the meal that Grandma and Grandpa had put down their old Labrador retriever, your childhood friend.

A hidden green light within the doors of the auto factory set him on high alert and gave justification for his unease. His back sought cover and pressed into the building’s rusted metal exterior. Sick curiosity compelled him to peek into the broken square window of a peeling, tetanus-infested door he couldn’t be sure even opened anymore. Within his framed view, he spotted an old banker’s lamp atop a fine desk. A figure sat in one of two chairs facing the desk business-style. Someone perched behind the desk typing out tiny echoing mechanical words.

A woman.

An incredibly familiar woman.

Iris positioned herself straight-backed in her illustrious chair, fingers pecking away at plastic keys. The sight of her drew March forward, past the stiff-hinged door into her royal hall. A single, curious step and two M16 muzzles pinched into his sides. On reflex, March settled his weapon delicately on the ground, bringing himself back up with detained hands clasped around his head.

“Boys, put the guns down. He won’t cause any problems. Isn’t that right, McIntosh?” her clear intonation reached the guards, and the men withdrew their firearms. Whether he understood the situation or not, March’s future belonged to Iris.

With an eye on the mysterious figure in front of Iris, he approached the heavily detailed scene, which included an ornate Persian rug and an orange extension cord trailing from her banker’s lamp to an unseen generator. Once his vantage point offered him a full view of his captor and her guest, a stiff-necked Sasha barely offered him so much as a nonconscious side-eye glance.

Almost as soon as he took his seat, Iris began her spiel like March’s proximity to her mouth triggered a switch, “We’ve been waiting for you, Special Agent McIntosh. Not a long while, but waiting nonetheless.”

Beside him, Sasha’s jaw strained under stress of the unknown, resolute in remaining unemotional.

“Iris,” March braved to interject, “I know you’re all about minding regulation, so could you please let me in on whatever the fuck this is?”

“In this venue, you’ll address me as Sergeant Voight,” Iris cut easily through the camaraderie March offered, “And speaking of regulation, we were just reviewing Mr. Schiefelbein’s infractions. Listen closely because your performance review is next.”

Stunned into silence, March assessed his surroundings:

His abandoned gun approximately 6 meters behind him.

2 guards at attention between him and his gun.

Sasha Schiefelbein silently grappling with his current predicament.

(Sergeant) Iris Voight poised to strike.

 

The _chk chk chk_ of keys against paper refocused March’s attention.

“Employee (M) made contact with Employee (S); Employee (S) failed to file report,” she tallied each infraction with business-formal severity, “Repeated contact over the course of 5 weeks without filing a report makes Employee (S) a REPEAT OFFENDER. Employee (S) breached confidentiality by sharing assignment information with Employee (M) multiple times making Employee (S) a REPEAT OFFENDER. Employee (S) broke protocol by contacting target under investigation [Employee (M)].”

The report trimmed all the specifics of their affair down into a skeleton, exposing March’s clear exploitation of information and wrenching a thin stream of tears from Sasha. Iris allowed no room for March to clarify that each interaction served a greater purpose than as a vessel for manipulation.

“Now, upon hearing the complete list of your offenses, what do you believe I’ve suggested as your sentence?”

For the first time since March had arrived, Sasha spoke, “Please don’t kill me. I told you everything you wanted to know. I didn’t know—I thought--”

“It doesn’t befit a man to beg, Mr. Schiefelbein. What sentence do you believe best fits your crime?” Her hands clasped in front of her on the desktop.

Hungry desperation seeped out of his psychological wounds as he repeated, “I don’t know. I don’t know. I don’t know…”

“Seeing as you do not have a recommendation, I will be forced to make the decision myself,” Iris prepared to key the final strokes on his report.

“No!” Sasha pleaded, suddenly lucid, “Let me go. Let me go, and you have my silence.”

Considering this for a moment, Iris typed 10 capital letters onto the release form. Unfurling the paper from the typewriter’s mechanism, she folded the report in thirds and sealed the paper inside an envelope, tucking said envelope securely into her briefcase.

“Effective immediately, you’ve been terminated from our employment. You are free to go.” Instead of prompting his release, Iris’ revelation froze Sasha in his seat.

“You’re not going to--”

“No, Mr. Schiefelbein. Although I understand your misgivings, please take my word as bond. Your death, however that may happen, will not involve my organization,” she softened, “Would you like to know why I trust you?”

Sasha’s silence told her to continue.

“You may have let emotion guide your decision making, which I do not condone or excuse. However. What ultimately redeemed you was your loyalty,” she pulled the chain of her lamp with a final gesture, stood, and whistled for someone’s attention. From the direction of her lamp’s extension cord, two men in mover’s garb stepped forth and transported her desk (typewriter and all) out of sight. She stepped her black boots off the Persian rug onto the dusty cement, signaling March and Sasha to do the same. Almost as soon as they stood, the movers removed the two blue cushioned chairs out from under them.

Now that her meeting with Sasha had concluded, Iris’ full attention focused on March.

“Special Agent McIntosh, where did your loyalty lie when you made the decision to flee the country?” Once more, the movers appeared, one taking Iris’ tufted maroon leather chair and the other rolling up the rug, prompting March and Sasha to step unprotected onto the factory floor.

Underneath the rug laid a black tarp.

“McIntosh,” she called for his attention.

He tore his eyes away from the vinyl covering, “I acted in my best interest. My hands were tied, so I created another option.”

“You know that’s not the truth, but I expected as much,” Iris puffed an unforgiving sigh, “No, your best interest was to report to me immediately after Sasha broke protocol. Your loyalty was neither to the Law nor to the Organization. Rather you decided to place your loyalty in a man, and you know as well as I do how trustworthy men are.”

March watched Sasha search his face for forgiveness.

“I—I thought you were going to turn me in. I was paranoid, March, I was fucking paranoid.” What remained of his steely composure disintegrated. The movers had returned, one crouching at the end of the tarp and the other rounding Iris on his way toward his destination.

The familiar sound of a cocked gun preceded the solid ridge pressed against his back, and--

***

Sasha watched March collapse dead onto the tarp. The men dressed in painter’s clothes rolled up and carried his body out of the warehouse. Iris left with them.

A few miles of walking toward the nearest payphone numbed his body, and he wondered how long he’d have to sit outside in this fading winter to die of exposure. After calling for a cab, he rode a short while as the cabbie drove him through town back to the post office.

His Volvo waited for him.

Scrolling through his mental Rolodex on reflex, he checked through the tasks lined up for the rest of the day. Absentmindedly, he made a note of stopping off at March’s to pick up the watch he’d left on his nightstand. Maybe they’d grab a drink. A pint on a chilly Sunday afternoon sounded perfect.


End file.
